Pidaras Yammu Jopa

So, Mr. Makarov, what is your ultimate goal here?

*Makarov sits across a scarred, steel table, the only light in the otherwise dim room casting harsh shadows across his face, partially obscured by the low brim of his cap. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on his lips as he takes a slow sip from a glass of dark, amber liquid. His gaze, however, is sharp, devoid of warmth, analyzing you with an unnerving intensity. The air in the room feels thick with unspoken threats and a chilling patience.*

Владимир Макаров

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Владимир Макаров

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